published after his death by his friend Dodsley, in three volumes. The first contains his poems, the second his prose essays, and the third his letters and other pieces. Gray remarks of his correspondence, that it is about nothing else but the Leasowes, and his writings with two or three neighbouring clergymen who wrote verses too.' The essays are good, displaying an ease and grace of style united to judgment and discrimination. They have not the mellow ripeness of thought and learning of Cowley's essays, but they resemble them more closely than any others we possess. In poetry, Shenstone tried different styles: his elegies barely reach mediocrity; his levities, or pieces of humour, are dull and spiritless. His highest effort is the Schoolmistress, published in 1742, but said to be 'written at college, 1736. It was altered and enlarged after its first publication. This poem is a descriptive sketch in imitation of Spenser, so delightfully quaint and ludicrous, yet true to nature, that it has all the force and vividness of a painting by Teniers or Wilkie. His Pastoral Ballad, in four parts, is also the finest English poem of that order. The pastorals of Spenser do not aim at lyrical simplicity, and no modern poet has approached Shenstone in the simple tenderness and pathos of pastoral song. Campbell seems to regret the affected Arcadianism of these pieces, which undoubtedly present an incongruous mixture of pastoral life and modern manners. But, whether from early associations-for almost every person has read Shenstone's Ballad in youth-or from the romantic simplicity, the true touches of nature and feeling, and the easy versification of the stanzas, they are always read and remembered with delight. We must surrender up the judgment to the imagination in perusing them, well knowing that no such Corydons or Phyllises are to be found; but this is a sacrifice which few readers of poetry are slow to make.

We subjoin part of the Schoolmistress; but one other stanza is worthy of notice, not only for its intrinsic excellence, but for its having probably suggested to Gray the fine reflection in his Elegy:

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, &c. Mr D'Israeli has pointed out this resemblance in his Curiosities of Literature, and it appears well founded. The palm of merit, as well as originality, seems to belong to Shenstone; for it is more natural and just to predict the existence of undeveloped powers and great eminence in the humble child at school, than to conceive they had slumbered through life in the peasant in the grave. Yet the conception of Gray has a sweet and touching pathos, that sinks into the heart and memory. Shenstone's is as follows:

Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!
Even now sagacious foresight points to shew
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo,
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,

As Milton, Shakspeare-names that ne'er shall die!
Though now he crawl along the ground so low,
Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high,
Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper-kite may fly.

The Schoolmistress.

Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest worth neglected lies;

While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise;
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of merit ere it dies;
Such as I oft have chanced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village marked with little spire,
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name;
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame:
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Awed by the power of this relentless dame;
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, Which Learning near her little dome did stow; Whilome a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low; And as they looked, they found their horror grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door imprisoning board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray;
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!
The noises intermixed, which thence resound,
Do learning's little tenement betray;
Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron died in grain, as blue, I trow,
As is the harebell that adorns the field;
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled;
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare ;
And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around,
Through pious awe, did term it passing rare;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on
ground.

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth,
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;

Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear;
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honoured eld with these revere;
For never title yet so mean could prove,

But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed, The plodding pattern of the busy dame; Which, ever and anon, impelled by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favour did her past deportment claim; And, if neglect had lavished on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak,
That in her garden sipped the silvery dew;
Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak,
But herbs for use and physic, not a few,

Of gray renown, within those borders grew:
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,
Fresh balm, and marigold of cheerful hue:
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb;
And more Í fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.
Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat:
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foemen did a song entreat,
All, for the nonce, untuning every string,
Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to
sing.

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, And passed much time in truly virtuous deed; And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed, And tortuous death was true devotion's meed; And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed; And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn: Ah, dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should e'er return !

In elbow-chair (like that of Scottish stem, By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, In which, when he receives his diadem, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed) The matron sat; and some with rank she graced (The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!), Redressed affronts-for vile affronts there passed; And warned them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Right well she knew each temper to descry, To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise; And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays: Even absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways; Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold, "Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters her command; Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair, Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are, To save from finger wet the letters fair : The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St George's high achievements does declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forthcoming rod-unpleasing sight, I ween!

Now I know what it is to have strove With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,

And the damps of each evening repel ; Alas! I am faint and forlorn

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I prized every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh,

And I grieve that I prize them no more. . . .

When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so-
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gazed as I slowly withdrew,

My path I could hardly discern;

So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.*

The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,

If he bear but a relic away,

Is happy nor heard to repine.

Thus widely removed from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe;
Soft hope is the relic Í bear,

And my solace wherever I go.

HOPE.

My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains, all bordered with moss,
Where the harebells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweetbriar entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire
To the bower I have laboured to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there.
O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves,

What strains of wild melody flow!

How the nightingales warble their loves,

From thickets of roses that blow !
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,

As-she may not be fond to resign.

*This stanza, and the four lines beginning: 'I prized every hour that went by,' were greatly admired by Johnson, who said: If any mind denies its sympathy to them, it has no acquaintance with love or nature.'

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,

Might she ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-O my Phyllis, beware Of a magic there is in the sound.

'Tis his with mock passion to glow, 'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold 'How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labour the strain, With the notes of his charmer to vie ; How they vary their accents in vain, Repine at her triumphs and die.' . . .

DISAPPOINTMENT.

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to stray; I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair, and my passion begun ; She smiled, and I could not but love; She is faithless, and I am undone.

Perhaps I was void of all thought:
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,

That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love every hope can inspire;
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorned with a smile...

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows, Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shewn to the sight, But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestowed such delight, As I with my Phyllis had known,

O ye woods, spread your branches apace ;
To your deepest recesses I fly;

I would hide with the beasts of the chase;
I would vanish from every eye.

Yet my reed shall resound through the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun;
How she smiled, and I could not but love;
Was faithless, and I am undone !

Song-Femmy Dawson.*

Come listen to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts and lovers dear;
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor will you blush to shed a tear.
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at every woe,
And pity every plaint but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant youth,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he loved one charming maid,
And dearly was he loved again.

One tender maid she loved him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came :
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favoured youth astray;
The day the rebel clans appeared,
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

How pale was then his true love's cheek,
When Jemmy's sentence reached her ear?
For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale or yet so chill appear.

With faltering voice she weeping said:

'O Dawson, monarch of my heart! Think not thy death shall end our loves, For thou and I will never part.

'Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O George! without a prayer for thee
My orisons should never close.

"The gracious prince that gave him life
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lisp the giver's name.

'But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be dragged To yonder ignominious tree,

Thou shalt not want a faithful friend

To share thy bitter fate with thee.'

Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate subject of these stanzas, was one of the eight officers belonging to the Manchester regiment of volunteers, in the service of the Young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington Common in 1746. The incident occurred as described in the ballad. A pardon was expected, and Dawson was to have been married the same day. The young lady followed him to the scaffold. She got near enough,' as stated in a letter written at the time, 'to see the fire kindled which was to consume that heart which she knew was so much devoted to her, and all the other dreadful preparations for his fate, without being guilty of any of those extravagances which her friends had apprehended. But when all was over, and that she found he was no more, she drew her head back into the coach, and crying out: "My dear, I follow thee-I follow thee! Sweet Jesus, receive both our souls together," fell on the neck of her companion, and expired the very moment she was speaking.'

O then her mourning-coach was called, The sledge moved slowly on before; Though borne in her triumphal car,

She had not loved her favourite more.
She followed him, prepared to view
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes

With calm and steadfast eye she saw.

Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly loved so long; And stifled was that tuneful breath, Which in her praise had sweetly sung : And severed was that beauteous neck, Round which her arms had fondly closed; And mangled was that beauteous breast, On which her love-sick head reposed: And ravished was that constant heart, She did to every heart prefer; For though it could its king forget, 'Twas true and loyal still to her.

Amid those unrelenting flames

She bore this constant heart to see; But when 'twas mouldered into dust, 'Now, now,' she cried, 'I follow thee. 'My death, my death alone can shew

The pure and lasting love I bore: Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more.'

The dismal scene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hearse retired; The maid drew back her languid head, And, sighing forth his name, expired. Though justice ever must prevail,

The tear my Kitty sheds is due ; For seldom shall she hear a tale So sad, so tender, and so true.

Written at an Inn at Henley.

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot or humble inn.
"Tis here with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin
Converts dull port to bright champagne :
Such freedom crowns it at an inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,

I fly from falsehood's specious grin ;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,

Which lackeys else might hope to win;
It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me freedom at an inn.

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.

DAVID MALLET.

DAVID MALLET, author of some beautiful ballad stanzas, and some florid unimpassioned poems in blank verse, was a successful but unprincipled literary adventurer. He praised and courted Pope while living, and, after experiencing his kindness,

traduced his memory when dead. He earned a disgraceful pension by contributing to the death of a brave naval officer, Admiral Byng, who fell a victim to the clamour of faction; and by various other acts of his life, he evinced that self-aggrandisement was his only steady and ruling passion. When Johnson, therefore, states that Mallet was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend, he pays a compliment to the virtue and integrity of the natives of Scotland. The original name of the poet was Malloch. When the clan Macgregor was abolished by an act of the privy-council in 1603, and subsequently by acts of parliament, some of the clansmen took this name of Malloch, of which two Gaelic etymologies have been given. One derives it from Mala, a brow or eyebrow, and another from Mallaich, the cursed or accursed, Mallet's father is said to have kept an inn at Crieff, in Perthshire; but a recent editor of the poet,* upon grounds not merely plausible but very probable, believes him to have been the son of parents of a less humble condition of life-a family of Mallochs settled upon the farm of Dunruchan, near Muthill, Perthshire, the head of which family was one of three on the great estates of Perth who rode on saddles, that being a dignity not permitted or too costly for others. The Dunruchan Mallochs were concerned in the rebellions of 1715 and 1745, and sunk to poverty. David is first found in the situation of janitor of the High School of Edinburgh--a menial office rarely given to one so young as Mallet, who was then not more than fifteen or sixteen. He held the office for half a year, his full salary being ten pounds Scots, or 16s. 8d. This was in 1718. He then studied for a time under Professor Ker of Aberdeen, to whose kindness he was much indebted, and he was afterwards received, though without salary, as tutor in the family of Mr Home of Dreghorn, near Edinburgh. He next obtained a similar situation, but with a salary of £30 per annum, in the family of the Duke of Montrose. In 1723, he went to London with the duke's family, and next year his ballad of William and Margaret appeared in Hill's periodical, the Plain Dealer. He soon numbered among his friends Young, Pope, and other eminent persons, to whom his assiduous attentions, his agreeable manners, and literary taste, rendered his society acceptable. In 1726 he began to write his name Mallet, 'for there is not one Englishman,' he said, 'that can pronounce Malloch.' In 1728 he published his poem the Excursion, written in imitation of the blank verse of Thomson. The defects of Thomson's style are servilely copied; some of his epithets and expressions are also borrowed; but there is no approach to his redeeming graces and beauties. Passing over his feeble tragedies, Mallet, in 1733, published a satire on Bentley, inscribed to Pope, entitled Verbal Criticism, in which he insolently characterises the venerable scholar as

In error obstinate, in wrangling loud, For trifles eager, positive, and proud; Deep in the darkness of dull authors bred, With all their refuse lumbered in his head. Through the recommendation of Pope, Mallet was appointed travelling tutor to the son of Mr Knight